Percepliquis Read online

  “Thank you, but I’ll be needing a horse and a sidesaddle.”

  The groom looked at her with a blank stare, his mouth open, his lips thick and cracked. “But—Your Highness, where you’re going—it’s quite a ways from here, ain’t it? Right awful weather too. You won’t want to be atop no horse.”

  She smiled at him, then turned and walked up the aisle between the stalls. The aisle was brick, the stalls were dirt, and everything lay covered in bits of straw. The rear ends of a dozen horses faced her, swishing tails and shifting weight from one hoof to the other. Cobwebs gathered in corners, catching hay and forming snarled nests even in the rafters. The walls all bore a stain a full foot from the bottom—the high manure mark, she guessed. She stopped without thinking before a stall. This was where she had spent a night with Hilfred, where he had held her, where he had stroked her hair—kissed her. A pleasant-looking gray mare was there now. The horse turned her head and Arista saw a white nose and dark eyes. “What do you call this one?”

  The groom slapped the horse’s rump fondly. “This here girl is called Princess.”

  Arista smiled. “Saddle her for me.”

  Arista led Princess out into the courtyard. The groom followed close behind with the wagon. The team of horses puffed great clouds into the morning air. A crowd of people came out to the steps of the palace wrapped in dark cloaks, heads draped in hoods. They spoke in soft voices and whispers, clustering in small groups; some cried. The gathering reminded Arista of a funeral.

  She knew many of the faces, even if she did not know all the names.

  Alenda Lanaklin stood beside Denek, Lenare, and Belinda Pickering as they said goodbye to Mauvin and Alric. Mauvin threw his head back, laughing at something. It sounded wrong—too loud, too much effort. With her left hand, Belinda dabbed at her eyes with a cloth; her right hand gripped Mauvin’s sleeve with white fingers. Alenda looked over the crowd, managing to catch Myron’s attention. She waved to him. The monk paused in his efforts to pet the noses of the team of brown geldings harnessed to the wagon. He smiled and hesitantly waved back.

  Not far away, two men Arista did not know spoke with the empress. One wore a plumed cavalier hat, a red and black doublet, high leather boots, and a heavy sailor’s wrap. The other man towered over everyone present. His head reminded Arista of a barrel, wide and flat on top and bottom, with vertical creases like wooden slats. He was mostly bald and missing one ear and sporting several ugly scars, one that split his lower lip. A thick, untailored cape draped him like a tent. Arista speculated he had merely cut a hole in a thick blanket and pulled his head through. At his side was a huge, crude axe, hanging naked from a rough bit of raw leather.

  “Do what the empress tells you,” Arista heard the sailor say. “She’ll take care of you until I come back.”

  A few feet away, Hadrian stood speaking with a man, a refugee from Melengar. He was a viscount, but she did not know his name. An attractive young woman rushed up, went up on her toes, and kissed Hadrian. The viscount called her Emerald.

  What kind of name is that?

  Hadrian hugged her, pulling Emerald off the ground. She giggled. Her left leg bent at the knee. She was very cute—smaller than Arista, thinner, younger. The princess wondered if he had dozens of women like this all over Avryn, or if this Emerald was special. Watching them together, seeing his arms around her, watching them kiss, she felt an emptiness, as if there were a hole inside her. She felt an ache, a pain like a weight pressing on her chest, and told herself to look away. After another minute, she actually did.

  Twelve riding horses and two hitched to the wagon, fourteen animals in all, stood waiting in the snow. On four of the horses sat five young boys—squires, Hadrian called them—who he had recruited to act as servants and watch after the animals. All Arista knew about them were their names: Renwick, Elbright, Brand, Kine, and Mince. The last boy was so small that he rode double with Kine. They waited sitting straight and trying to look serious and grown up.

  The buckboard, filled with their provisions and covered with a heavy canvas tarp, had its wheels removed and was fitted with snow runners. Huddled on the forward bench, glancing only occasionally at the crowd and adjusting his hood with a disgusted, angry expression, was the dwarf. Beneath his heavy brows, beneath his large nose and frowning mouth, his long braided beard had recently been cut short. The dwarf’s fingers absently played with it the way a tongue might play with the space left by a missing tooth. He grumbled and sneered, but she could not find any sympathy for him. It was the first time she had seen Magnus since the day he had slammed the door in her face—less than a week after his hand had murdered her father.

  Royce Melborn stood alone in the snow. He waited silently across the courtyard near the gate, his dark cloak fluttering lightly with the breeze—a small shadow near the wall. No one appeared to notice him except Hadrian, who kept a watchful eye, and Magnus, who repeatedly glanced over nervously. Royce never looked at any of them. His head faced the gate, the city, and the road beyond.

  Amilia exited the palace, wrapped in heavy wool. She pushed through the crowd and crossed the yard to Arista. Trapped under her arm was a parchment, wrinkled and creased. In her hands was what looked to be a short whip.

  “This is for you,” she said, holding out what Arista now recognized as the severed half of the dwarf’s beard, still neatly braided. “Being aware of Magnus’s tendency to disappear, Modina took the precaution of snipping some hair for you.”

  She nodded. “Give her my thanks. Do you know where Gaunt is?”

  “He’s coming.”

  The castle doors opened once more and Degan Gaunt stepped out. He was clad in a belted fur-lined houppelande and a chaperon hat with a full bourrelet wrapped around his head and a long cornette that streamed nearly to the ground. The elaborate houppelande was worn complete with huge bell sleeves and a long train, which dragged across the ground, softly grading the snow behind him.

  “The future emperor has arrived,” Amilia whispered, and then added, “He thought his clothes needed to reflect his future status and he didn’t want to be cold.”

  “Can he ride in that?”

  Before the secretary could answer, a page ran out before Gaunt carrying two large silk pillows and a blanket. He proceeded to lay them out on the wagon’s bench. The dwarf forgot his beard as he looked at the pillows beside him with another sneer.

  “I’m not riding beside a dwarf. Get that runt off of there,” Gaunt said. “Hadrian will drive the wagon.” When no one made a move, he added, “Do you hear me?”

  Arista pulled herself onto Princess’s back, swung her leg over the sidesaddle horn, and trotted rapidly to Gaunt. She reined the animal only a few feet short of Gaunt, causing him to step back. She glared down at him. “Magnus rides on the wagon because he’s too short for the horses, and he is perfectly capable of driving it, true?”

  The dwarf nodded.

  “Good.”

  “But I do not wish to travel with him.”

  “Then you may ride on a horse.”

  Gaunt sighed. “I’ve been told this will be a long journey and I do not wish to spend it on the back of a horse.”

  “Then you can sit beside Magnus. Either way—it doesn’t matter.”

  “I just told you I don’t want to sit beside a dwarf.” Gaunt glared at Magnus with a grimace. “And I don’t appreciate your tone.”

  “And I don’t appreciate your obstinacy. You can ride beside Magnus, ride on a horse, or walk, for all I care. But regardless, we are leaving.” She raised her head and her voice. “Mount up!”

  At her command, they all found their rides and climbed aboard. Looking livid, Gaunt stood staring at the princess.

  Arista pulled on the reins and turned her mare to face Modina, who was holding Allie’s hand. This left Gaunt facing the rear of her mare.

  “I swear I will do all I can to find the horn and return with it as soon as possible.”

  “I know,” Modina replied. “May Maribor
guide your path.”

  Alric and Mauvin rode at the head of the party, although the king did not know where they were going. He had studied many maps but only set foot out of Melengar on three occasions. Alric had never traveled that far south and he had never heard of Amberton Lee before the meeting. He trusted someone would tell him when to turn—Arista, most likely.

  They traveled the Old Southern Road, which Alric knew from maps ran all the way to Tur Del Fur, at the southern tip of Delgos. As they passed through the Adendal Durat, the road was little more than a cleft in the ridge that sliced through the rocky mountains as it dropped down from the plateau of Warric to the plain of Rhenydd. Snow drifted in the pass such that on occasion, they needed to dismount and pull the horses through, but the road remained passable. Months of sun followed by bitter nights had left a crust on the surface that crunched under the horses’ hooves and left icicles, hanging thick like frozen waterfalls, across the face of the rocky cliffs. The height of winter was over, days grew longer, and while the world lay buried, it was not as deep as it once had been.

  No one talked much during the course of the morning. Gaunt and Magnus were particularly quiet, neither saying a word nor looking at each other. Degan sat bundled, his long train wrapping his body and head so only his nose remained exposed. Magnus appeared oblivious to the cold as he drove the wagon with bare ruddy hands. His breath iced his mustache and what remained of his beard, leaving him with a frozen grimace of irritated misery. Alric felt better seeing his discomfort.

  Royce and Hadrian rode at the rear of the party, and Alric never noticed either speak. Royce rode absently, his hood up, his head down, bobbing as if he were asleep. The five boys were with them. They whispered among themselves occasionally, as servants were prone to do. The sailor they called Wyatt rode beside his giant friend. Alric had never seen a man that size before. They had provided him a draft horse and still his feet hung nearly to the ground, the stirrups left dangling. Wyatt had whispered a few words to the giant at the start, but Elden never spoke.

  The only conversation, the only break from the droning crunch of snow and panting breath of the animals, was that of Myron and Arista. A quarter hour did not pass without the monk pointing out some curiosity to her. Alric had forgotten Myron’s fascination with everything—no matter how trivial. Myron found the twenty-foot icicles hanging from the cliffside nothing short of a miracle. He also pointed out designs he found in the rock formations—one he swore looked like the face of a bearded man. Arista smiled politely and even offered a laugh on occasion. It was a girl’s laugh, high and light, natural and unburdened. Alric would feel self-conscious to laugh so openly. His sister did not seem to care what those around her thought.

  Alric hated how she had taken charge when setting out. As much as he had enjoyed the look on Gaunt’s face when she had barked at him in the courtyard, he disliked the bold way his sister acted. If only she had given him the time to act. He was the king, after all. The empress might have given Arista authority to organize the expedition, but that did not extend to leading it. She had never satisfactorily explained why she was along, anyway. He had assumed she would ride quietly in the wagon and leave commanding the venture to him but he should have known better. Given her theatrics in the courtyard, it was surprising that she still rode sidesaddle and had not taken to wearing breeches. They escaped the tight pass before noon as morning clouds finally gave up their tight grip on the world. Ahead the land dropped away, leaving a magnificent view to the south. Alric spotted Ratibor in the distant valley. The whole city appeared no larger than his thumb and from that distance it looked beautiful, a clustered glen in a sea of forest and field.

  “There,” Hadrian announced from the rear, pointing toward a shining river to the east. “You can see Amberton Lee—sort of. Down near the Bernum River, where it bends. See there, how the land rises up into three hills.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” Arista agreed. “I remember.” She looked up at the sky. “We won’t make it today.”

  “We could spend the night in Ratibor,” Hadrian offered. “It’s only a few miles. We could reach it by nightfall.”

  “Well, I don’t—” Arista began.

  “We will head to Ratibor,” Alric declared quickly, causing Arista to look at him in surprise.

  “I was just going to say,” she went on, “if we veer east now, we’ll be that much closer in the morning.”

  “But there is no road,” Alric told her. “We can’t be wandering through the snowy fields.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who knows how deep that snow is and what lies beneath?”

  “Royce can find us a route through; he’s good at that,” Hadrian said.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Arista agreed.

  “No, Ratibor is a much better choice,” Alric said loudly. “We’ll get a good night’s rest, then push on at first light and be there by noon.”

  “But, Alric—”

  “You heard my decision!” He kicked his horse and trotted down the road, feeling their eyes on his back.

  Hooves trotted up behind him. He expected it to be his sister and dreaded the argument, but he would not back down. Alric turned hotly only to see Mauvin with his hair flying. The rest of the group followed twenty feet behind them, but they were moving in his direction. He let his horse slow to a walk.

  “What was that all about?” Mauvin asked, moving alongside, where the two horses naturally fell into the same pace.

  “Oh, nothing.” He sighed. “Just trying to remind her who’s king. She forgets, you know.”

  “So many years, so few changes,” Mauvin said softly, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mauvin only smiled. “Personally, I prefer your idea. Who wants to sleep in the snow if you can have a bed? Besides, I’d like to see Ratibor. It was on our list, remember?”

  Alric nodded. “We were also supposed to go to Tur Del Fur.”

  “Yeah, but let’s save that for another time, since it’s under new management and all,” Mauvin mentioned. “I still can’t believe we are on our way to Percepliquis. That was always the big prize—the dream.”

  “Still hoping to find the Teshlor Codes?”

  Mauvin chuckled. “That’s right. I was going to discover the secret techniques of the Teshlor Knights. You remember that, do you? I was supposed to be the first one in a thousand years to possess that knowledge. I would have guarded it jealously and been the greatest warrior alive.” Mauvin glanced behind them. “Not much chance of that now. Even if I did find them, I could never match Hadrian. He grew up with it and was taught by a master. That was a stupid dream, anyway. A boy’s fantasy. The kind of thing a kid thinks before actually seeing blood on a blade. When you are young, you think you can do anything, you know? And then…” He sighed and turned away. Alric noticed his hand go up to his face briefly before settling on the pommel of his sword, only it was not Mauvin’s sword.

  “I didn’t notice before,” Alric told him, nodding toward Mauvin’s side.

  “This is the first time I’ve worn it.” He pulled his hand away self-consciously. “I’ve wanted it for so long. I used to see my father wield it—so beautiful, so elegant. I dreamed of it sometimes. All I ever wanted to do was hold it, swing it, and hear it sing in the air for me.”

  Alric nodded.

  “What about you?” Mauvin asked. “Are you still interested in finding Novron’s crown?”

  The king huffed and might have laughed if the statement had not seemed so ironic. “I already have a crown.”

  “Yeah,” Mauvin said sadly.

  Alric spoke in a voice just loud enough for Mauvin to hear. “Sometimes the price of dreams is achieving them.”

  They were just closing the city gate for the night when the party arrived in Ratibor. Arista did not recognize the guard. He was a burly, balding man in a rough stitched rawhide coat who waved at them impatiently to get inside.

  “Where is
a good place to find lodgings for the night, my good man?” Alric asked, circling his mount on the guard as he went about locking down the city.

  “Aquesta. Ha!” The man laughed.

  “I meant here.”

  “I knows what ya meant,” he said gruffly. “The Gnome has open rooms, I think.”

  “The Gnome?”

  “It’s a tavern,” Arista explained. “The Laughing Gnome—King’s Street and Lore.”

  The guard eyed her curiously.

  “Thank you,” she said, quickly kicking her horse. “This way.”

  The heavy scent of manure and urine that Arista had remembered as the prominent smell of Ratibor was replaced by the thick smell of wood smoke. Other than that, the city had changed little from the last time she had been there. Streets ran in awkward lines, forcing adjoining buildings to conform to the resulting spaces often with strange results, such as shops in the shapes of wedges of cheese. The wooden planks that used to bridge the rivers of muck lay buried beneath a thick layer of snow. The winter had stolen the leaves from the trees and the wind ripped along empty streets. Nothing but the snow moved. Arista had expected winter would brighten the place and bury the filth, but instead she found it bleak and barren.

  She rode in the lead now. Behind her, she could hear Alric grumbling. He spoke too low for her to catch the words, but his tone was clear. He was unhappy with her—again. Any other time, she might have fallen back, apologized for whatever it was she had done wrong, and tried to make him feel better. But she was cold, hungry, and tired. She wanted to get to the tavern. His feelings could hurt at least until they were settled.

  As they approached Central Square, she tried to keep her eyes down and focus on the snow where Princess walked, but she could not resist. When they were in the exact middle of the square, her eyes ignored her will and looked up. The post was still there, but the ropes were gone. Dark and slender, nearly blending into the background, it was a physical reminder of what might have been.

  There is blood under the snow, she thought.